Drawings
by UnseasonedTurkey
Summary: Sam gets deaged, and Dean can’t help but think of something his mom told him
1. Drawings

**I saw this video** **and it was like, this mother drawing her newborn son everyday until he can tell her to stop, and for some reason, the idea of Dean doing it popped into my head. **

**I genuinely like the idea and find it cute, but it would be weird if Sam were like, 33 while Dean was 37, so that's where deaged!Sam comes in. **

**So that changes it to..**

**Sam: newborn**

**Dean: basically a parent once again**

**So, hope you enjoy and comment please. **

**~SPN~**

It was one of those nights.

Just a night where Dean wanted to be alone with his undead mom, sitting outside, on the Impala, under the stars with a beer in hand and the crickets chirping near them.

Dean savored these nights, wanting to make up for the lost years he never had with her, wanted her to make him sandwiches like she used to do, give him those silent smiles that made him feel warm inside and told him that everything would be alright.

Overall, he just wanted to be 4 again, where demon's had left them alone and angel's weren't known of yet, where Sammy was still innocent, not touch by Azazel, not marked as Lucifer's vessel, not having the memories of hell still buried deep beneath the surface, where his dad was still an actual dad, who wanted to play baseball and all sorts of other things fathers do with their sons, and most of all, where he could've grown up an actual _kid. _

But not everyone gets what they want.

But he was making up for it, sort of.

He turned his head when a sigh came from his mom, watching her shoulders deflate as she tipped the beer bottle back and sipped its contents, relishing the taste.

He knew that sigh, he's heard it plenty of times.

"What's on your mind?" He said casually, tipping back his own bottle and filling his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk again. Mary looked at him, confusion crossing her face.

"Nothing," she paused, "why?" Dean knew it was a lie, a big fat lie, just like those credit cards and FBI badges were. He felt the corner of his lips tug upwards into a small smile.

"That's a lie, and don't even try to worm your way out of it, I grew up with that look on Dad's face and always knew he was thinkin' of something. So either spill it or forever hold your peace." He was trying so hard to be casual about this, but the fact that he was sitting here, with his mom, his _mom_, it. . . It was like a fever dream.

He held eye contact with his mom, watching as her thoughts broke down the wall of her silence, victory rising rapidly in him as she opened her mouth.

"I just-" she broke off, "it's weird, I guess." She set her beer between her legs and kept one hand on it, laying back again the windshield. "Being here again, you know?" No, he didn't know, but nodded anyway. "I-I mean the last time I saw you boys you weren't even above my waist and now-" she broke off again, "I mean, god look at Sam!" she exclaimed.

Dean smiled, thinking of his little brother, the 6'4 giant.

He would always joke when he was younger that Sam would stay a runt forever, because being 4'11 when you were almost 12 wasn't normal for most boys. But once he reached 15 his growth spurt kicked in and then bam, he was as tall as Dean, but didn't stop growing there.

"Yeah," he said, "kid's a giant." Speaking of Sam, where was he?

He had told his brother to go out on a beer run with Cas, that'd been almost 2 hours ago. Before he could let worry swarm over him like a hive of bees, Mary spoke again.

"Do you remember when I used to draw Sam?" she asked, tilting her head back at the stars that danced above them.

The question sent him tumbling into memories.

Did he remember?

It was hazy, just flashes of little him crawling onto his parents bed where Sammy was sleeping, and Mary sat to the side, a small sketchbook and pen in hand.

He could, however, remember vividly how small Sam's nose had been, the thick lashes that would curl on his baby soft eyelids, the tufts of hair on his head and the small breaths that came from the infant. And somehow his mom was able to capture every detail onto a piece of paper.

But that notebook burned with his childhood.

He still choked up thinking about it.

"Yeah," he whispered, "I do." And God how he wished he didn't, because maybe if he wouldn't be able to recall it wouldn't hurt so much.

Mary nodded, taking a swig of the last of her beer before tossing it gently onto the ground, the bottle now empty.

"You were quite the artist when you were little." she said, "You loved to take crayons and draw on the walls, leaving red and blue everywhere." a small laugh escaped her lips. "I think I kept a spare room for you just to color in, because both your father and I knew you just wouldn't color on paper."

He didn't remember that, but pretended he did just to keep that smile on her face.

He laid back against the windshield too, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds around him. The chirping of crickets, the hooting of an owl that he and Sam had spotted many times before—they'd given it the name Gerald—and the sound of tires crunching on gravel—wait what?

He sat up and turned toward the sound, seeing a car pull up with Cas in the driver seat and Sam, no where to be seen.

Dean's heart rate spiked when he didn't see his brother, the swarm of worry and fear washing over him as he hopped off the hood, Mary following behind.

The car came to a stop and Dean still couldn't see Sam, but when Cas stepped out of the car with something in his arms Dean swore his heart fell to his feet and further.

"Cas," he started calmly, "where's Sam?" he wouldn't freak out now, but if he didn't see his brother in the next 0.5 seconds he swore he would make the devil piss himself.

Cas shifted from foot to foot, opening his mouth to speak but a small cry interrupted him. Dean turned his attention to the bundle of clothing in his arms and felt the air get kicked out of his lungs.

It was a baby.

A whole ass, newborn baby.

He didn't speak for a good 30 seconds, instead vouching to flick glances between Cas and the small child, before turning to Mary, seeing the same shock on her face before turning back to Cas.

"What the f—" he began, but Cas cut him off.

"Dean—" he cut Cas off.

"No, no no no. Don't 'Dean' me, who's baby is this?!" he cried, gesturing his hand towards the baby in the angels arms. And still, he had no clue where Sam was.

He put two and two together.

"Is this-" he took a breath, "is this Sam?" He heard Mary gasp behind him and by the look on Cas' face he knew he guessed correctly.

"How the-" he was cut off again.

"A witch, she jumped us and I managed to kill her but not before she uh," he paused, nodding his head at the baby. "cursed him."

Gurgling noises came from the baby, and if that didn't make Dean's heart warm then he didn't know what would.

He walked closer to Cas, taking the baby—Sam—from him, bouncing him gently and shushing him when he started to fuss. Sam seemed to recognize who was holding him and turned his fussing into soft coo's.

He turned to Mary, seeing a look of amusement on her face. He gave her the classic Winchester Bitchface️.

"Don't give me that look." He said, shifting Sam in his arms so his head was resting gently on his shoulder and holy _shit_ is this really how tiny babies were?

Mary smirked, "What look?" and gave a small smile to Sam, who was simply drooling on Dean's shoulder.

Dean suddenly became very aware of his surroundings.

"We have to get inside, it's freezing out here, especially for Sammy, and are mosquitoe bites bad for newborns?" he rambled while heading towards the door to the bunker, stopping only once he realized that they didn't have anything for Sam. "Hey Cas, go to the store and buy like, baby stuff," he stopped, thinking for a moment. "Actually, Mom, go with him, I don't think he knows anything really."

Mary and Cas shared knowing looks before heading towards the car Cas and Sam arrived in while Dean took Sam into the bunker.

**~SPN~**

As Dean made his way fown the spiral staircase, Sam remained quiet, gnawing on his fist as Dean hustled around the Bunker, picking up knives that had been left on the table and floor and placing them in out of a toddlers reach.

(He knew Sam wasn't able to walk yet much less crawl, but he didn't know how much longer his brother was going to stay like this.)

Once he was satisfied with the weapons out of reach, he headed towards his room seeing how Sam's eyes were drooping.

He grabbed the pillows from Sam's room and brought them into his, creating a little blockade on his bed with the 4 pillows, making sure none of them were able to suffocate him. (God he forgot how fragile babies were.)

He went to set Sam down, but the second his back touched something that wasn't Dean, he freaked.

Loud wails traveled through the bunker, echoing off of the cavernous place as Dean tried his best to hush the youngest Winchester. He quickly picked Sam back up, propping him back against his shoulder and bounced on his feet, swaying back and forth while humming the first Led Zeppelin song to come to mind.

Sam's cries quickly died out once he was back in Dean's arms, his tiny—so friggin _tiny— _hands came to rest in Dean's shoulder and collarbone, and holy shit Dean would be lying if he didn't say he was melting on the inside.

Dean kept up the melody until Sam fell asleep, and decided that laying down didn't seem like such a bad idea right now.

He rearranged the pillows with one hand, keeping the other on Sam's neck, stabilizing him until Dean was able to lay down, kicking off his shoes as he did.

The upper half of his body was being elevated by the pillows while Sam rested on his chest, little fingers tightly curled around Dean's. He looked down and smiled, a true, genuine smile. (Was Sam always this cute?)

He found himself slowly drifting off to the sounds of the little wheezes that Sam made, one arm curled protectively around the sleeping infant while one was held close to his chest so Sam could keep his grip on Dean's finger.

If they couldn't find a cure, maybe he could get used to this.

**~SPN~**

**First chapter done. **

**Holy crap I never expected myself to actually go through with this I-**

**I don't know, I just really think that video was cute as hell and for some reason connected it to this. **

**So review please and next chapter will be updated soon (lies)**


	2. Ch2

Boom, ya lookin for this?

Ok but like no cap Rhodey is the best MCU character and that's on period.

So, we back, we fresh, we lookin good, we feelin great, and we got a new chapter.

Enjoy my 'etoiles.

**~SPN~**

When Dean woke up, it wasn't pleasant.

He was in the middle of a nice, sweet dream with warm apple pie in his lap, strippers dancing seductively on the table in front of him, all holding whipped cream cans with blaring rock music in the background.

He watched with lustful eyes as one of them came forward—if he could remember correctly her name was Mindy—her lacy, black bra and matching thong just barely covered anything up. She opened her mouth, painted, plump red lips stretching open to speak, but the sounds of a wailing baby came out instead of what Dean had been expecting.

Dean's eyes snapped open, feeling Sam's hands grab at the hem of his t-shirt as he wailed, his eyes shut tight and tears making their way down his tiny face.

"Sammy?" Dean was sitting up with Sam resting in his arms in less than a second, standing up and humming a new random song, bouncing gently around the room trying to get Sam to calm down, but he wouldn't.

"Hey hey hey, shhh." He said softly, cupping the back of the infants head and stroking his thumb along the back of it, trying to think of why Sam was crying.

He looked over that the clock, seeing that it was around 4 in the morning and he sighed, letting his head fall back as Sam cried, feeling his tiny stomach growl, and then it clicked.

Sam hasn't eaten in what, 9 hours? It didn't seem that long to him but to a baby, that might as well be a week he guessed.

Hoping his mom and Cas had come back with what he needed, he hurried towards the kitchen, Sam whimpering and crying in his arms. The sound hurt Dean, both physically and emotionally because damn did this kid have a set of pipes on him when he cried. And if there is one thing Dean hates most in the world, it's Sam crying.

He did a mental cheer when he entered the kitchen, seeing all the supplies sitting on the counter, heading towards it he grabbed a bottle and formula, picking up a water bottle as well.

He went to lay Sam down on the counter (why in God's name did he think that was a good idea) so he could make the bottle, but the crying increased drastically, making him cringe as the wailing happened right in his ear.

"Need some help?"

Dean whirled around, seeing his mom standing there in sweatpants and a gray tank top, her short hair hanging curled and tangled as she leaned against the archway to the kitchen, an amused smile on her face as she watched Dean struggle with the infant.

She walked over, taking the formula and bottle from Dean as he tried his best to calm the infant down, bouncing awkwardly around the room as Sam continued to cry, gnawing on his chubby little fist.

He watched every move his mom made while making the bottle, hoping to be able to do it on his own next time. He quickly noted everything down in his head. Fill the bottle with water, up to the. . . 6 ounce mark? Heat the water for 30 seconds, add 2 scoops of formula, and shake it up.

Once Mary was finished, she handed the bottle to Dean, her hands barely grazing his as the small portion of motherly instinct in her watched as Dean shifted Sam in his arms to a cradling positions.

"Uh? Do I just. . ." Dean questioned, tighting his grip around Sam gently as he squirmed. Mary smiled, knowing that if she took Sam out of Dean's arms the crying would never cease. She guided his hand with the bottle in it towards Sam's mouth, waiting until he realized what it was before Sam hesitantly gnawed on the top of the bottle. When he did that, drops of milk came out, and he finally calmed down, sucking on the bottle as he fell asleep.

Dean heaved a sigh and braced himself against the counter, letting his tired head drop to his chest.

"I got him some baby clothes and diapers, y'know, so he wouldn't have to practically live in that t-shirt." Said Mary, collecting a blue onesie and a diaper, setting them on the counter next to Dean.

"Also, when he's done, make sure to burp him so he doesn't throw up."

Dean started at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about. Mary noticed the look and performed the classic Winchester Bitchface before explaining what to do with a small demonstration served on the side. Once Dean got the gist of it, they fell into a comfortable silence before Dean spoke up.

"Don't you think you should do it? Y'know considering you're his mother and all." he paused, his fingers playing with Sam's feet, rubbing his thumb—that was practically the size of his whole foot—along the bottom of them. "Don't you think he'd be more comfortable with you?"

Mary's smile dropped slightly, knowing that sure, she may have given birth to Sam, may have given him all the love she could muster in those short, 6 months. But she knew who really raised Sam, she could tell easily.

"I think we both know who the real parent is here." She said simply, smirking at the baffled look on Dean's face. She cupped his face in her hand and wondered, how fast did her eldest really have to grow up?

"Good night Dean," she looked down towards the infant, "night Sam." and walked out of the kitchen towards her room. But before she left completely, she turned around to tell Dean one more thing. "I got a small notebook and pen, y'know for the uh, drawings, if you wanted to maybe. . ." She trailed off, nodding her head towards the pile on the counter before heading to her room officially this time.

Dean sighed and looked back down towards Sam, watching his eyelids flutter as he drank contently, his tiny hand clutching the bottle as the other one remained wound tightly around Dean's finger.

He didn't know how to draw. Hell, he still didn't even know how to draw a friggin' apple that looked semi realistic. But, it never hurt to try did it?

Yeah actually, now that he really thought about it, it did. Not only would it damage his pride that he practically wore on his sleeve but it would embarrass him to know that the artist his mom had hoped to raise was killed the minute that fire started in 83'. God why did everything have to be so friggin depressing?

He watched as the last of the milk was drained, and slowly eased the bottle out of Sammy'a hands, placing it on the counter to be washed later and headed towards the pile on the counter, fishing out what seemed to be a burp cloth and threw it over his shoulder, shifting Sam against the cloth. He began to pat his back gently like his mom had showed him to do, hoping he was doing this right.

While he was doing that, he grabbed the diaper and onesie preparing to head back to his room, but something flashed and caught his eye.

From the pile, a pen shone under the kitchen light, the silver plastic catching the light and throwing into Dean's peripheral view. He stared at it, wondering if he should actually go through with what his Mom hinted at.

He played with the thought a little bit before deciding that he would only get the chance to do this once, he grabbed the pen and the small, black notebook that rested underneath, heading back to his room.

He did it right apparently, seeing as Sam let out a burp louder than it should have come out of a small baby, and promptly throwing up seconds later.

Dean sighed, wiping the baby's mouth and throwing the rag in the corner of the room near his other dirty clothes, plopping gently down on the bed with Sam gnawing mindlessly on his tiny fist.

He set the baby down between his legs and quickly put the diaper on him before stripping off that large tee that swallowed the infant, then folding his legs into the onesie that miraculously fit perfectly.

By the time Dean was done dressing him, he was out, lying on his stomach by Dean's thigh, head turned away with arms pulled up by his face, soft snores coming from the baby.

Dean let his gaze linger on the baby before turning his attention to the book, the weight of both the pen and the nervousness was almost enough for him to put it down on his nightstand, say fuck it and go to bed with Sammy, but, he couldn't.

He remembered some things from school, like shading techniques and using shapes to outline drawings and all that. He used to draw mindlessly in newspapers and notes while hunting with his dad, always getting sad looks that soon turned into disapproving ones, but it's been so long since he's done that.

He opened the book to the first page, seeing it blank and ready to be filled with the shitty drawing he knew he was going to make. He looked at Sam again, trying to trap the image of him in his mind so he could draw it.

He remembered his art teacher showing his class how to draw a face at one point—he'd gotten an A in every art class—start with a circle, lightly drawn, and then add guidelines, and it all depended on direction, and Sam was facing away, so this might be easier, or it might be harder, it all depended on skill he guessed.

Before actually starting on his final piece, he sketched out a few things first, like face shapes, side profiles, lips, noses, eyes, shading, the whole package.

Most of them came out pretty great actually, he thought with surprise, content with his eye and lip drawings but the noses could use a little work. But it's been a while so he cut himself some slack.

Feeling like he was ready, he began to draw, starting with the circle and guide lines lightly, then drawing on from there. Drawing Sam's face from an angle was hard, but he got the hang of it quickly, his hand steadily guiding the pen to draw a tiny nose that was almost hidden by chubby cheeks and eyelashes that fluttered every now and then.

It began to form a somewhat realistic image of a baby, but it looked. . . weird to him. He'd just never really drawn before is what he passed it off as, and continued to draw, starting to add in some shading where it was necessary.

When he was finished, he was actually really proud of the sketch, it actually looked like Sam with the same nose and pouty lips from the side and the chubby cheeks, and the shading added all the depth to make it look semi realistic.

And for his first sketch in like what, 15 years? It was pretty fucking great.

Happy with his success, he set the notebook and pen on his nightstand and turned the lamp off, burying beneath the covers and throwing one arm around Sam, dragging the infant closer, a smile appearing on his face when the baby curled his fingers around his shirt with his face buried in Dean's chest.

He thought this would be the worst thing ever, but it turns out, everything was going right for the first time in a while.

Finally, he had a win.

**~SPN~**

Holy crap I actually loved this chapter. Well, I mainly liked the ending, not the beginning because the ending was written better but whatever.

This was finished at 4 am btw. So if there are any mistakes I'll fix them later.

Anyway next chapters update: unknown

Salut 'etoiles.


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